“We do?” Boyd said. “Sure we do,” Malone said. “The question is: how?” Boyd said: “Mmm.” Then there was silence for a little while. “How are the saboteurs doing all this?” Malone said. “It just doesn’t seem very probable that _all_ the technicians in the Senate Office Building, for instance, are spies. It makes even less sense that the labor unions are composed mostly of spies. Or, for that matter, the Mafia and the organizations like it. What would spies be doing in the Mafia?” “Learning Italian,” Boyd said instantly. “Don’t be silly,” Malone said. “If there were that many spies in this country, the Russians wouldn’t have to fight at all. They could _vote_ the Communists into power, and by a nice big landslide, too.” “Wait a minute,” Boyd said. “If there aren’t so many spies, then how is all this getting done?” Malone beamed. “That’s the question,” he said. “And I think I have an answer.” “You do?” Boyd said. After a second he said: “Oh, no.” “Suppose you tell me,” Malone said. Boyd opened his mouth. Nothing emerged. He shut it. A second passed and he opened it again. “Magic?” he said weakly. “Not exactly,” Malone said cheerfully. “But you’re getting warm.” Boyd shut his eyes. “I’m not going to stand for it,” he announced. “I’m not going to take any more.” “Any more what?” Malone said. “Tell me what you have in mind.” “I won’t even consider it,” Boyd said. “It haunts me. It gets into my dreams. Now, look, Ken, I can’t even see a pitchfork any more without thinking of Greek letters.” Malone took a breath. “Which Greek letter?” he said. “You know very well,” Boyd said. “What a pitchfork looks like. _Psi._ And I’m not even going to think about it.” “Well,” Malone said equably, “you won’t have to. If you’d rather start with the Russian-spy end of things, you can do that.” “What I’d rather do,” Boyd said, “is resign.” “Next year,” Malone said instantly. “For now, you can wait around until the dossiers come up—they’re for the Senate Office Building technicians, and they’re on the way. You can go over them, and start checking on any known Russian agents in the country for contacts. You can also start checking on the dossiers, and in general for any hanky-panky.” Boyd blinked. “Hanky-panky?” he said. “It’s a perfectly good word,” Malone said, offended. “Or two words. Anyhow, you can start on that end, and not worry about anything else.” “It’s going to haunt me,” Boyd said. “Well,” Malone said, “eat lots of ectoplasm and get enough sleep, and everything will be fine. After all, I’m going to have to do the real end of the work, the psionics end. I may be wrong, but—” He was interrupted by the phone. He flicked the switch and Andrew J. Burris’ face appeared on the screen. “Malone,” Burris said instantly, “I just got a complaint from the State Department that ties in with your work. Their translator has been acting up.” Malone couldn’t say anything for a minute. “Malone,” Burris went on. “I said—”